


The Past is Immortal

by theladyems



Category: League of Legends
Genre: Fanon Heavy, Gen, character history
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-28
Updated: 2015-06-19
Packaged: 2018-02-15 03:12:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2213619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theladyems/pseuds/theladyems
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A multi-chapter work projected to cover the early life of Jericho Swain, from a failed assassination attempt through his eventual promotion to Grand General of Noxus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Winter and Death

  
_“It was strange that a single death should attract so many crows.” —Alfred de Musset_  
  
     The chill morning air around the glorious, dark citadel seemed to hold its inhabitants to their motto: “only the strong survive”. It bit and clawed, howled and screeched with a furious wind at the rooftops and towers of the massive mountain city. Noxus, as it had come to be called, had a bloody history of military might. Few outside it spoke well of the cutthroat society and many a grudge lay founded against those who fought for it.  
    This day, in the bitter cold, a pair of figures made their way through one of the city’s outer gates. The guards stationed there paid little mind to them, focusing chiefly on staying warm in the early hours. As the hooded men stepped into the wilderness on foot, their steaming breath easing forth from tight-drawn cloaks and scarves, the younger of the pair spoke.  
    “Master, are we certain this could not possibly run afoul? Enemy territory, a small window, it’s left extremely to chance.” His voice cracked a little revealing his age. The taller figure stopped and locked pale blue eyes with his apprentice.  
    “In this business, Jericho, it is all chance. Our missions are nothing more than calculated risks. Are you forgetting your lessons so readily?” The elder voice cut like steel, though quiet. Jericho flushed, only barely stifling a huffed sigh. He was far from a stupid boy. It had been his cunning which separated him from other applicants to train under the man who now lead him on the most important task of his budding career.  
    “No, Master Du Couteau. I defer to your judgment.” Despite relenting outwardly, doubt swirled in his mind. There were too many variables still unaccounted for. Fate was not a kind mistress, and Jericho was old enough to realize their departure felt premature to their knowledge of the situation. He resigned himself to silence on the subject for the remainder of their trek to the Demacian capital.  
  
  
    The bold gold and blue clad guards took careful measure of the pair of neutrally-dressed Noxians, and the clerk eyed their forged credentials with great care. He had detected nothing out of the ordinary, as Jericho had anticipated. His hand was steady and though he was relatively new to the craft, such documents were not difficult to counterfeit. A guilty part of Jericho wished the clerk would have caught the falsified papers and their mission would be over before it had really begun. He forced such thoughts to the shadows of his mind as soon as the approval left the aging official’s lips.  
    The city was bright,  admittedly beautiful in some ways even, but overall it struck him as stifled. The atmosphere, the people, and their smiles seemed surreal. There appeared to be no measure of sadness publicly, as though feeling an emotion other than pride, elation, or determination was a faux pas. It both disgusted and fascinated Jericho, for among the positive he saw weakness. Many a cripple or frail citizen stood among the other, able-bodied folk. They were soft, coddled people. Perhaps crime did exist, but it was only as a shadow, a story told to frighten children into the moral mold of goodness that Demacia prided itself in. He could easily detect in the eyes of the city guards which ones had seen combat, which ones had taken a life. The brightness of the city hid that taint well, but his training was better. These passive tidbits of information were his routine when unfamiliar with a location, and they helped him quell the knots in his gut.  
    Master Du Couteau brought them to a small tavern in what must’ve been considered a ‘seedy’ part of the city. It still outshone much of Nox by no small stretch, however it did afford Jericho a taste of home and a small sense of comfort to calm the bubbling uncertainty in his mind. They ate a nondescript but hearty meal and retired to a single room with a pair of small beds, where his master began to carefully unpack a rucksack.  
    “Bring me water from the basin, the maid should have filled it already.”  
    Jericho obliged, and watched his master crush and mix a lethal concoction from a familiar set of herbs. Vials would have frozen on their journey, he realized belatedly, after pondering why his master would undertake alchemy in the enemy’s home.  
    “Jericho, your mind is uneasy. Speak it, so that we may have no hesitation when the moment arrives.” The apprentice inhaled sharply, caught off guard that Master Du Couteau had read him so easily. The boy had tried, and apparently failed, to reign in his emotions around his mentor. He trusted the man to an extent, that extent laying in his Noxian ideals. Should Jericho fail to exemplify the bloodthirsty strength and determination to survive, Du Couteau would cease his apprenticeship. This was roughly equivalent to a death sentence, a consequence the Master had hinted broadly at on more than one occasion. With a casual hand on the nape of his neck, Jericho answered.  
    “This target. Who designated him for you?” Jericho locked his young blue-grey eyes on his master’s face. Two day old rust colored stubble already marred the well-groomed nobleman’s face. Du Couteau looked older than his mid-twenties, and with his talent for shadowy executions, he was often treated as such. Even now, Jericho had a hard time believing him anything but a wizened senior at his craft.  It was in his entire countenance. Jericho’s stomach knotted in anticipation of his master’s answer. He had listened carefully to the talk amongst his parents on his last visit home. The nobility had heard of High Command seeking a talented assassin in the underworld. Rumor had left him with his master’s name and a sense of unease.  
    “There’s no hiding anything from you, Jericho Swain.” Du Couteau clicked his tongue at his apprentice with a half-smile on his face.  “High Command contacted me about a specific need our beloved Noxus has. The need to stifle the Lightshield line and snuff out the hearts of their subjects.”   
    “They want to defy the armistice already? Such a step seems premature…” he trailed off, musing silently for a beat, trying to reconcile his train of thought with his master’s. Demacia did need to be put in its place. Why the rising assassin and his novitiate for such an important target though?  
    “Noxus does not sit idle while our enemy rallies under their banner of peace. They’ve relaxed. My sources and personal observation tell us their guard is lowered. The pampered Lightshield heir will be the spark for a fire that will sweep through this city-state and begin our machinations. Surely you’re not suggesting otherwise, Jericho?” The younger boy had to break the gaze of his mentor. He stared at his hands, idle in his lap, and released a hushed sigh. He wasn’t about to argue with Du Couteau, despite his instincts screaming otherwise. This was not the time to lose focus.  
    “No, Master. I would never question.” An embarrassing voice crack on the second syllable of ‘master’ gave his reply an appropriate tone of submission. He deliberately toyed with his favorite armament to avoid his master’s piercing eyes.:The keen blade attached at the wrist and held slight retracting capabilities. Fiddling this way was more for comfort than anything else. His master had already briefed him on the weapon and method for this murder, a hexbow with poisoned bolts. Silent entry, distant placing, no chance of being discovered, no chance of turnabout and no antidote to administer for the deadly serum. One shot from the dark with practiced aim would finish their target. There would be no need for the familiar edge and tactics he preferred. Being close and cruelly personal in the blink of an eye; using the technique his master had perfected, gave Jericho a dreadful thrill. His targets and opponents never had a moment to react. One moment; one opening was all he needed to exploit and emerge successful. He had even started learning how to reduce blood splatter and evidence as needed.  
    “Go to sleep, boy. I need you sharp tomorrow.”  
    Jericho carefully replaced the blade into his rucksack and settled into the soft bed he’d previously perched on. Before drifting off, he mused on how much preparation his master had done for this mission. He had been training with the hexbow for weeks now, at Du Couteau’s insistence. The crafty bastard had known that long without cluing Jericho in. He’d have to afford more attention to the correspondence that reached their safe house. Still, he doubted such a grand message would have been left laying around for nosy apprentices to find. His last thoughts before leaving consciousness were on his own naivety and childishness.  
  
    Jericho Swain’s eyes snapped open, awake the instant he heard his master’s voice. Rising from the comfort of the inn’s quality beds, he found his eyes heavier than they should be. If this was an inn, what was daily life like here? One night and their softness had already started to creep into him. He rolled his shoulders back and forth, loosening the drowsy muscles. Du Couteau passed him his cloak, and the boy donned it with ease. Noting the light in the room for the first time, he realized it was mid-morning. He shot his master a curious look, and the man returned a smug smile. He handed Jericho the hexbow, folded compactly, and a set of three bolts within an oilcloth case. The boy tucked them discreetly within his clothing. The complex hextech bow fit comfortably under his left forearm and the bolts slid neatly into his right boot.  
    “Breakfast downstairs in the inn proper, and then we’ll pay the palace a rather memorable visit.” Du Couteau hoisted both rucksacks with ease and led his apprentice from their room. They took a seat near a window. Outside, sunlight beamed on the glorious marble structures. The brightness was overwhelming. Jericho began steeling himself for entering the glowing city; his eyes would need to adjust. Noxus and its primarily underground city could not have prepared him for such conditions. Mercifully, he would be performing his act indoors.  
    Their meal was a simple affair: toasted rye bread, with a scrambled egg apiece and an unfamiliar citrus juice to chase it down. The pair finished quickly, paid their tab and departed without much more than pleasantries regarding the innkeeper and his staff to satisfy the custom. The cobble streets were busy, the day was beautiful for the dead of winter, and much of the citizenry appeared to be taking full advantage of it. Plenty of them hadn’t even bothered with outerwear beyond unbuttoned coats. A pair of guards conversed in the sunshine as Jericho and his master passed by unnoticed. The white streets did not disappoint his anticipation of their glare and he squinted much of his way through the Demacian capital.  
    Ocular relief came when they arrived at the outer gate of the palace, mercifully sheltered by an arched alcove where palace guards-notably more armored and flourished- stood watchful. They eyed the pair warily as they passed through to the inner courtyard. Beyond this lay a stretch of cobblestone and the very obvious public entrance, two large honey colored wooden doors. These were propped open with guards on either side once more, and a chamberlain at a podium on a dais just beyond. Here the guards stopped them outright and checked them for weaponry. Du Couteau had spirited away their rucksacks without Jericho’s notice on their trek, leaving him burden-less as the guards patted his clothing, looking for any suspicious bulk. As they turned to the young man, Jericho stared evenly while they repeated the process. His master conversed politely with them, making a timely joke about the sunshine in winter. A wry smile cracked on the face of the one patting down Jericho’s leg.  
    Deciding they were harmless, the guards gestured towards the chamberlain. He managed a bow in synch with his master and barely kept pace as they approached the podium. Jericho passed his master the document containing their ‘credentials’. They were posing as a pair of concerned citizens from a border town near Noxus set to attend court for the next few days seeking support for a garrison to be sent to their town. The chamberlain, a blonde haired woman with fine lines creasing at the corners of her eyes and mouth, gave them a smile that reeked of pity.  
    “Welcome to the court of His Royal Majesty, King Jarvan Lightsheild III, please mind your etiquette. Disturbances will be not be tolerated. I hope you find support for your cause.” Her words had hardly passed her lips before his master was thanking her and the deadly pair were inside the palace proper. A grand open-air hall stretched before them, where two members of the royal family sat. The crown prince appeared to be absent, much to Jericho’s annoyance. With his target missing, he had no choice but to survey the other prominent figures in the room as they passed into a recessed doorway on the west side of the massive room. A few nobles stood out by the attention they commanded of those around them as the room hummed with murmured conversation. The king and queen appeared to be merely observant, their thrones on a raised dais flanked by white marble columns. He seemed haggard, his deep black hair had a few small streaks of dark grey peppered almost imperceptibly throughout it. Jericho gave the monarch one last look before disappearing into the side corridor behind Du Couteau.  
    “Alright boy. Down this hall is a flight of stairs leading to one of the balconies. Perch yourself up there and wait. I’ll keep the patrol over here busy so you’re unnoticed. Once its done I’ll meet you outside the city gate we entered through.” Jericho nodded once in response, and turned to take his position. His master’s hand caught his shoulder mid swivel. “Oh, and Jericho, botching this is not an option, lad.”  
    The look Du Couteau fixed him with made Jericho shiver a moment. The creeping doubt was back in his stomach, and the unease he had staved off through most of their preparations reared its head in his thoughts as the stairs rose beneath him. The young assassin took his place in the darkened overlook and began reassembling his weapon. In moments he was back to scanning the crowded court, the dais holding the royal family now fully occupied. He had missed the prince’s entrance in his ascent, and the young man now sat beside his mother, on the far side from Jericho.  
    He waited. Watched. The silent killer observing his prey. Moments ticked by, not a detail escaped his notice. As the day waned and red-gold light streamed into wall opposite Jericho, he noted the court beginning to empty. The king rose and took his leave, with much ceremony from the stragglers. As the depth of early winter night began to close in on the Demacian palace Jericho spotted his opening. The prince stood. The young boy strode across the platform, closer to the west wall, and turned his back to his killer. He was oblivious to his plight.  
    Jericho lifted the hexbow, now heavy in his hands. The potential repercussions of his action stared him in the face. High Command had guaranteed this to be the path to sparking new war, in which Noxus would emerge victorious. No. Wait. That was as his master had said. His mind swirled over his orders. He inhaled deeply, the cold night air biting his lungs. At the top of his breath he gently squeezed, releasing the poison coated bolt towards its tender target…  
    . _..and missed._  
    Jericho swore loudly on his exhalation. The bolt clattered loudly against the marble throne just to the side of Prince Jarvan Lightshield IV. A collective gasp escaped those still occupying the court. The queen screamed. If he had still been observing Jericho would have seen guards rushing in from all sides, but he had already flown his perch, abandoning his weapon and the remaining bolts. Instead of descending the way he’d come, he continued down a hall directly opposite the arch to his balcony, looking for any escape. Plate boots and a boy’s voice echoed behind him, the brat had enough sense to know the source of the attempt and now lead the search for his would-be killer. Swallowing bitter disgust at the young royal’s audacity, Jericho rounded another corner, his leather boots making little noise on the smooth polished floors. He turned, finally coming face to face with a window large enough to fit through and enough casement and ornamentation to clamber down without much trouble.  
    “Halt, murderer!” The high voice betrayed his only pursuer as Jericho’s quarry. The older boy turned and leered at the prince-ling.  
    “I take no orders from Demacian scum.” Jericho picked up a small table and shattered the window with little effort. Throwing it to the floor beside him, he leaped onto the sill, grinding the glass into powder with a crunch.  
    “Then to hell with you, Noxian cur!”  
    Jericho felt two hands, strong for their age, press into his back, pushing him off balance. He plummeted, smashing into the architecture he had previously hoped to aid him. He was aware of a simultaneous pain and cracking noise from his right leg as he scrambled to catch hold of the masonry sliding beside him. Finally his hands caught a windowsill and he stopped his descent. His heart pounded audibly in his skull. Adrenaline made his mind race, though his thoughts seemed to be in slow motion. Jericho’s body began to auto-pilot, instinct taking over as his mind crawled painfully slow to catch up.  
    He glanced upward. Jarvan IV’s upper body leaned out the window staring at him. Jericho eyed where the palace wall met the outer city wall and struggled his way across the stonework and windowsills toward it. His leg was utterly useless. The pain had numbed itself, but a dead limb made climbing an arduous process. He heard the sound of armor below him. Surely archers would be on him any second.  
    No arrows came. He could only assume that as night had completely fallen, darkness had come to his aid. The outer city wall approached and he fell in a heap to the floor of the rampart. Fortune had it that he was in between guard patrols. Their armor glinted as it passed torches placed in intervals on the walls. He unceremoniously shuffled to the parapet, favoring his injured leg. He hadn’t broken the skin with the bone, another mysterious turn of fortune, so there was no tell-tale blood trail to clue anyone to his failure and sloppy escape.  
    He slid down the side of the wall, the smooth stone offering little purchase. The impact with the ground sent new waves of pain up his injured leg and a couple shocks through his ribcage. He’d fallen several stories already today, adding the wall hadn’t seemed like a poor choice at the time. The bottom of the second fall made him realize how foolish his judgement had been. Breathing heavily, pain began to throb in his right calf, and he noticed now the flesh had swollen. It would be impossible to remove his boot without cutting it, and he lacked an edge to accomplish that. He leaned against the wall, his back flat against it. The memory of his failure flashed before him once more. How had he missed? It was impossible. He had practiced for weeks on end. His aim was impeccable. There was no conceivable reason for this utter fiasco.  
    Numbly Jericho recounted the conversation with his master only the night before. Du Couteau had been hiding information from him. High Command may have issued this order, but there was no way they could’ve expected success. He stared at his empty hands, his gloves in shreds from his fall and subsequent climb. A rustling came from the brush just beyond his resting place. He stiffened, his eyes scanning the dark wilderness with care. Overhead he heard a croaking call from a bird.  
    “Pity luck got you this far, Jericho Swain.” The familiar tongue clicking heralded his master emerging from the darkness, his hood drawn over his eyes. The apprentice rose to his feet, attempting a guarded stance. He favored his injured leg heavily, an unavoidable handicap. “You were so promising, Jericho. I’m almost sorry I had to hang you out to dry like this, it’s nothing personal.”      
    “What are you babbling about?” Jericho growled, gritting his teeth against shooting pain. He wobbled and tried to steady himself against the wall.  
    “You were right to have doubted me, boy. The royals had wards on them. No bolt could have hit them in that court. I knew it, High Command knew it, and they sent me to my death on this mission. The impossible mission I tasked you with.”  
    Shaking violently, from rage or pain, Jericho didn’t know or care which, he lunged with tight fists at Du Couteau. The man sidestepped him and brought his forearm down on his shoulders. The boy snarled and fell into a slump at his former master’s feet on the cold ground. Pain was beginning to take his consciousness, his failure and injuries tormenting him.  
    “I’m truly sorry our partnership had to end this way, but I plan on surviving to challenge those bastards that set us up. I hate to break this to you-” Jericho flinched with a gasping cry as a heavy boot came cracking down on his already broken leg- “but you’ll never make it in Noxus this way. I’m doing you a favor, boy. Lay down and die. The next life will be better anyhow.”  
    Warmth spread through his leg. Jericho knew he had begun to bleed. A kick impacted his ribcage. Another blow connected with his windpipe. More croaking bird calls rang through the air. It sounded like there were dozens of birds. Black shapes came between him and the stars. Jericho stared blankly into the sky, unaware that his master had stopped after three well-placed blows and departed. A chill seeped into his body, every throb accentuated. He actively felt his heart beginning to give up and he gasped for air, clinging to life.  
    He managed a hacking laugh, more wheezing than mirth. Even in utter failure and despair his Noxian will to survive held him in this life. One of the inky shapes drew close and Jericho felt a weight on his chest from two clawed feet. It leaned over him. With a small amount of horror, he realized the avian would probably be relieving him of his eyes shortly. Instead, six crimson circles leered at him. He heaved another tortuous breath into his lungs as he marveled at the visions his death throes granted him.  
    _“Broken, beaten. Yet still so very strong. Terrible power, this will.”_ A raspy feminine voice penetrated his mind.  
    He laughed once more in hacking agony. Death was speaking to him. It was so typical. Predictable. Quaint. The bird turned her head to the side, fixing him with three eyes at once.  
    _"This one is not of the realm beyond the curtain, young one. Though this one can save you from it. This one hungers."_  
    Jericho supposed it could not be any worse than this pit of pain. Rage and despair coursed through him. He could no longer see the bird, his vision had deserted him, but heard her voice clearly. His soul burned at the opportunity to reverse his fate this day. He longed for the power that had eluded him.      
    _"Such sustenance. Be still as this one repairs the mangling. "_  
    Jericho felt a jolt in his mind. The cold in his body started to melt away and the pain disappeared. His consciousness began to return and he became acutely aware of the throbbing dying in waves. He opened his eyes and swallowed carefully, breathing deeply with only residual soreness in his diaphragm. As he rose to a sitting position he stared at the twisted figure of his right ankle. Both bones protruded from his boot, and the muscle looked infected. Dawn began to streak over the frost-touched scrub-land. In the pale light he finally saw his savior. She was a gorgeous black raven with six red eyes. Her beak and talons were a dull grey, and her feathers illumined the early morning hues. With a tentative hand he stroked her chin. She croaked in affirmation and seemed to beam as she explained.  
   _“This one did what she could, but this one’s magic is still limited. We can do so much more together, new companion, though time is necessary.”_  
    “Good.”  His voice had become hoarse, it shocked his ears to hear his new gravelly tone. He rose, standing with relative ease. Pain seemed so much duller. His failure was no longer raw. He had room to think, to plan, without such distractions. It was as though she brought him true clarity of mind. What a fool he’d been letting his blind trust of his former master nearly lead him to ruin. No longer. He would rise, one way or another, and he would outdo any and all expectations Marcus Du Couteau had. This failure would forever remain in the depths of winter, merely a memory. Jericho Swain had found his strength; for only the strong survive. Grinning wryly, the young man limped slowly away from the ‘shining’ city of exemplars, his bird perched on his shoulder- as though she too had found her way.


	2. Struggle and Beginnings

The two soldiers on sentry duty hailed him from at least a hundred feet. Jericho's companion- Beatrice, he reminded himself- had spied a Noxian garrison and promptly returned to his shoulder. The trek from the Demacian capitol's walls dragged on over a long three days. His leg left him with a dull ache the entire journey. As his bird drew in prey, the ache lessened, but in between meals it throbbed. The limp appendage had taken a beating over tree stumps and boulders, and begun bleeding again shortly before the two sentries called to him. Jericho gave the standard Noxian pass-phrase and they allowed him passage, but not without gawking at his injury. He was met with a similar reaction entering the infirmary.  
Jericho would have laughed at the portly medic's eyes as he caught sight of the young man's mangled leg, had his throat even begun to heal. The gruesome sight had nearly doubled the man's eyes in size, and they threatened to burst from his skull as he boggled at the protruding bone and discolored ankle. Unfortunately, Jericho's throat still ached, hindering him from expressing his mirth at the hapless infirmary charge.  
That one has not see many battles, this one thinks. The fields of war yield many worse injuries than yours, his companion let out a croak similar to a scoff of her own kind of amusement. He patted her gently on the head, a gesture he had grown fond of. After scrambling for writing tools, the medic finally composed himself to gesture Jericho to an examination bench.  
"Name?"  
"Jericho Swain," he rasped, struggling with his raw throat. The strange harshness of his voice startled him. At least it seemed to have stopped threatening to crack at any interval, he supposed.  
"Origin?"  
"Noxus."  
"No, where exactly are you from?"  
"Noxus. My papers are here if you need more validation, but I find my leg may be a more pressing matter."  
The medic swallowed hard under the adolescent's cold stare. His eyes seemed to be blue, with some kind of odd red tint ringing the outside of their irises. He uneasily continued the questions.  
"Medical history, then?"  
"No outstanding issues. No inherited ailments."  
"Well then, this leg will need magical attention, I will notif-"  
"No. No magic touches me but my own."  
Taken aback, the medic protested, eyebrows furrowed.  
"I can splint it, but you'll never regain full use of it again, not without an adept's attention. That's a death sentence, and you know it."  
"Splint it. Give me a crutch."  
"You'll never make it with a bum leg."  
"Only the strong survive, doctor."  
"Think of your future, you fool!"  
"The only fool in this room is the one refusing to splint my leg."  
The medic huffed in resignation and cross the room to retrieve his supplies. A half a dozen of the beds around him held ailing soldiers. A few were chronic malingerers, a few had true injuries and illnesses, but all were his patients. Training accidents mostly were the brunt of the reason for seeing him, as the post saw little real combat. The hypochondriacs were simply lazy, and persuasive to their higher ups. He figured they were serving their mandatory term and then crawling back to whatever slime they were dragged from to enlist. This station was a cushy post, the workload was entirely light. Still, better to keep a soldier that cut corners away from the honest ones, he felt, as such an attitude could easily undermine the entire operation. He rummaged a bit and returned through the infirmary to his new oddity of a patient.  
"Take this to numb your pain," he handed the boy a packed herb capsule and turned to his work. The boy's leg appeared to have broken through the skin, then shattered as though ground like herbs in a mortar and pestle. Shards of bone protruded from flesh, and the more he re-opened the wound and examined it, the worse the fracture revealed itself to be. After setting what was left of the smaller ankle bone, the medic began the arduous process of piecing together what he could of the larger one. A full hour passed before he could finish the dressing and plaster. There was little he could do without magical assistance, the young man's stubborn refusal condemned him, very possibly to death.  
"A crutch, if you please." Clearing his throat, the patient stood, a bit unsteady at first, but largely unphased. The medic could only stare as Jericho Swain and his strange bird hobbled out of his infirmary. Only after the pair had left and he turned to clean the bench did he notice the anesthetic capsule lay untouched on the end table beside it. One of the malingering soldiers nearby shook slightly with a definite pallor to his face.  
"He never flinched, Doc. He put that numb-stuff there and never once did his face change... That lad. He weren't human."  
The doctor muttered something about needing to write his report for supplies used and hurriedly left the infirmary.  
Jericho pondered his options as he limped-much easier now with the addition of the crutch-toward Nox. From the capital he would seek his parents' estate, though he doubted a warm welcome home awaited him. Winter's bite still tinged the air as he passed the war-scarred Noxian countryside. Little infrastructure existed in this region. The stretch between the outpost and the city was dotted with ruined watchtowers, decaying forests and fields, and abandoned estates and farmsteads. Among the ruins were obvious military campsites.The countryside wasn't wholly inhospitable, but it certainly seemed to test the strength of those who travelled it.  
He passed under a crumbling arch straddling the road. Beatrice gently prodded his ear, putting him on alert. He stopped and slid up against the blackened stones, his back to the inner wall of the arch. The terrain lent itself perfectly to an ambush, he realized.  
His bird's warning proved correct as two thugs in ill-kept armor descended on Jericho with wicked smiles.  
"Ay, lookit this shabby little scarecrow, must be lost in these parts. There's no crops 'round here need your protectin'."  
"Careful Ryd, he's not a very good scarecrow. There's a mite-ridden winged rat on 'is shoulder. Squawker might cause us trouble."  
Beatrice bristled on Jericho's shoulder. He could feel heat seep into his blood but remained calm. He put his free hand up in a feigned flinch and tried his best to look convincingly afraid of the brutish leader, now close upon him brandishing a dented morning star.  
"Then let's take it first. We could use some fresh meat. 'Ere scarecrow, hand your birdy over and then y' can be on the way."  
Sizing them up quickly, Jericho moved his arm from in front of his face to right beneath Beatrice's feet. The bandits were a foil of body types, and, if their weaponry was any indication, fighting styles. The one called Ryd was the largest and clearly the leader. He held an obviously two handed morning star in one hand and had a tattered billowing cloak. The other speaker was thin and wiry, wearing cracked leather armor and weilding a quarter staff. His reach would be a problem.  
"Well, wee stickman, you'd best get on wit it."  
"If you insist," he croaked in return, flinging Beatrice at them.  
In an instant he felt the heat from his blood rush through his arm and into his raven. Acting as a focal point of the spell her beak erupted in white hot light, bathing the bandit leader in a painful beam. The man screamed and his partner leapt toward Jericho in his defense. Leaning heavily on his good leg, the boy ducked into a crouch and raised his crutch above his head. He caught the quarterstaff mid blow and pushed it back. Du Couteau's training still lay in his muscles, even after being broken.  
"You little witchy bastard!"  
Jericho's first spell had worn off, and Beatrice returned to his shoulder. He rolled on instinct. The morning star sailed past him and struck the crumbling masonry where he'd just sat. Carefully rising to his feet, he let the warm sensation of spellwork flow back through him. The bandits wasted time in rushing him again. He crouched again to dodge the staff once more, and thrust his cane forward into the lean man's stomach. Winded, the assailant doubled over with a wheeze. Blindly he extended his arm in the direction of Ryd, sending a ball of searing green magic at the man. Ryd shrieked as it connected squarely to his chest and sent crackling green tendrils across his body.  
Ryd wailed once more in agony from the spellwork and finally crumpled in a heap on the ground, twitching. The man with the quarterstaff fiercely kicked his former leader with his boot and scowled. Jericho met his scowl with a leering smirk and raised his hand once more.  
Talons erupted from the ground, pinning the man and his prone companion in place. Blood seeped down the man's ankles. The boy shuffled toward them. As he approached, a wind picked up and the beating of wings filled the air around him. Ravens swarmed from seemingly nowhere, enveloping the two hapless bandits. Gleeful croaks and desperate shrieks mixed in chorus, giving Jericho a chilling sense of self-satisfaction. A comforting warmth began in his chest as they tore flesh from bone and stole the bandits' life away. It spread through his limbs, and flooded into his right ankle.  
It is mended. It will not hurt any longer, save in darkest winters. And yet...  
Jericho waited for her to finish. The flock began to subside as they had eaten their fill.  
...it will not be strong enough to carry you.  
He shrugged in response and lifted a hand for her to land upon. At the sight of it he gave a start. Was this his own limb? Wicked talons extended from his fingers, and his knuckles were covered in of grey scales that transitioned into black feathers at his wrists. As he stared, the feathers retreated back into his skin and the claws softened.  
Does this trouble you?  
He narrowed his eyes a little and smiled at the six eyed raven. He shook his head and chuckled. The state of his forearm was certainly a surprise, but being troubled over a second chance was not even close to what was on his mind. With a little cunning, he wouldn't need his leg to succeed.

Jericho let his mind wander while his feet moved with purpose. The terrain slowly changed from scarred highlands to marshes and sloughs. Snow had recently fallen in a light dusting. Most of the ground was frozen, and by proxy much of the marsh itself. Pockets of running water trickled softy here and there as dusk began to fall. Termite mounds at least as tall as Jericho dotted the ground amid the riparian forest, their denizens tucked soundly inside, preparing for the long-off spring and swarming.  
Weariness had crept into his muscles. Hobbling cross country, and disposing of two would-be bandits probably weren't wise actions, though necessary. He had to reach Nox before too much time had passed, there were arrangements he needed to make, and stock he needed to take of his situation. From his bearings, the capitol was north and east still at least a day's walk. The terrain should eventually give way to farmland, if he remembered the map correctly. The natural obsidian mountain that held most of the city had probably long ago rained fertile volcanic ash on the surrounding valleys. Naturally, Noxus took advantage of the resources available. Military units needed supplies, after all.  
More pressingly than the major landmarks, Jericho scanned the area for any semblance of a campsite or place to recoup until morning. He wouldn't want to get caught trekking at night in an unfamiliar area. Predators seemed unlikely unless desperate, but the dead of winter was a lean time.  
After rounding a bend in the road, he spotted a trail and what probably passed for a campsite a few meters off. The dead brush cracked as he pushed past and to the small clearing at the base of a relatively large tree. It had smooth bark and had grown with a unique hollow at its base. This hollow could fit at least two adult men beneath it, so Jericho had ample room to make himself comfortable. Beatrice nudged the side of his head.  
Watch. You rest. Will not sleep.  
He silently assented, and she flew to a branch above his makeshift camp.

The next morning came without a dawn. Overcast skies held the world in a dismal shade of cold grey. Jericho roused sometime well after sunrise, but before midday. He cursed softly. This would set him back a bit. Beatrice, perched overhead, acknowledged his awakening with a soft croaking caw.  
Rising stiffly, he leaned hard on his crutch. His body was chilled. He flexed his knees, one at a time, testing his motion and letting blood flow return. Nothing throbbed or felt particularly weak- a marked improvement from the long trek between Demacia and the outpost. He couldn't quite piece together how he'd traversed those miles, and did not question it. Such knowledge held little revelation beyond what he already had proof of. His will to survive had bound him to his new companion and bought him a second chance.  
Beatrice alighted on his shoulder once more, and they were underway. His steps were rhythmic to accommodate the cast he left in place. It would have to come off before he actually entered the city or it would instantly become a target painted on him. Noxus was not known for much recourse for those who were crippled, Du Couteau had been right about that much. Determination surged into him at the thought. He would have to see to it he wasn't right about anything else.  
The road finally wound out of the swampland and through cultivated fields, their furrows frozen in winter's embrace. Stone cottages with thatch roofs dotted here and there, and the occasional barn of the same make accompanied them. Smoke curled from a few stone chimneys. A scarecrow made of nothing more than a crossbar and shredded burlap swayed as a chill gust of wind ripped through the farm country.  
Jericho mused over his plans. He was now in the possession and trust of power and allies, both of which were magical and personal. There scope was not much more than protecting himself against those that would take advantage of his obvious handicap. His skills before had included forgery, basic close combat, basic survival, knowledge of much of the underbelly of Nox, and the uncanny ability to beat Du Couteau handily at chess. He very possibly would have a sum of money he could withdraw from the coffers, via his family, but it was unlikely these would be accessible. He supposed if the bureaucracy hadn't caught up with the report of his death before he reached the city he may have a chance.  
As for his endgame, he would have his work cut out for him. Noxian society, and even Demacian, if his short trip had been any indicator, was so caught up in martial, physical strength. Yet was not Runeterra a world of magic? Summoners were powerful, sure, but they were hardly treated with any kind of respect. in fact, in Noxus many were treated with suspicion and dread. He hadn't really paid much thought to it before, but Du Couteau, who had never revealed the source of his knowledge, had only ever spoken of the Academies of Necromancy, and the summoners who were both loosely within the Noxian military. Of course, the handful of academies concerning Necromancy were also tied to Zaun, Jericho inferred.  
He rounded a corner and spotted a village. The bleak clouds had drifted off and again the winter sun gleamed down. It appeared to be near midday, yet Jericho noticed a distinct lack of hunger in his gut. Thirst though was definitely upon him. He could make out a well in the middle of a ring of buildings. Houses, huts, and a large building-presumably an inn- made up the main thoroughfare through the town. As he neared he could see more. People on their routines bustled around, as much as a small village can. A goodwife swept the threshold of her home, a boy about Jericho's age mended a hitching post outside the large building, and a young woman filled her bucket. A pair of posts roughly twice as tall as Jericho marked the entrance from the road, with a man in a boiled leather chestpiece loosingly holding a longbow standing beneath the left one. Just under fifty feet out he was hailed.  
"Traveler, what business have you here?" The man had his bow ready, though not brandished. Jericho stopped and responded with a rasp.  
"I merely wish to pass through, perhaps with a drink of water to ensure I arrive in the captiol."  
The man regarded Jericho, sizing up the young man. He held his gaze on his crutch and mangled leg.  
"We do not abide those who cannot fend for themselves. From whence have you come, that I may know you will not tarry?"  
"The outpost not a day's march southwest. My wound will not hold me here."  
The villiage man lowered his bow and nodded. Jericho continued his hobble towards him. When he reached the threshold of the village he met the man's inquisitive stare. The man flinched and narrowed his eyes.  
"I should not have insulted your character, stranger. Take your respite, and then your leave of us, that your misfortune not spread."  
Jericho scoffed and nodded. This was the first of many who would question his strength, due to reliance on a cane. Once the void forsaken cast was off, it would be easier to hide, but until then he would have to entertain patience. He had a feeling they would become old friends.

Revived by the icy well-water, he found movement to be easier. He discovered near the opposite edge of the village, a trash heap. What caught his eye, was not the heap itself, but the glint of sun on steel. A notched dagger lay among the other objects unable to be re-purposed or awaiting reuse. After stowing it in the remains of his belt, he continued down the road, which continuously appeared more up-kept. If his leg was in fact healed, he could be rid of this clumsy cast, and that would require a somewhat sharp instrument. He could probably find a decent stone to hone the blade and then hope to cut apart the field surgeon's attempt at setting his leg.  
An opportunity presented itself as he crested a hill and the obsidian mountain housing the city came into sight. A marsh began once more, at a place where the river broadened and spread out, spilling into branches here and there. Here it was warmer, and water ran freely through small tributaries throughout the marsh. Reeds, brown and dead littered the landscape. An outcropping of rock built up the road's bed amid the soup. It was down this that Jericho slid, only a few feet, to where a patch of clear water rushed over smooth stones. Extending his leg, he sunk down to rest on the bank and quickly began rolling up what was left of his trouser leg. With a deliberate motion he swung his ankle into the running water. While it soaked, he tested the knife against his thumb, it seemed like it would cut the plaster and linen well enough.  
After about fifteen minutes, he tested the edges of the cast. They had softened slightly, and he began sawing slowly. The linen threads pulled here and there, but with patience and further soaking, he managed to remove the impeding bandage with only a single nick near the bottom of his ankle to show for it. The skin beneath it looked sallow and dyed yellow with a cleaning substance around a pale white scar where his bones had torn through and been replaced. He returned the knife to his belt and slid the tattered pant leg back down his shin. It wasn't the greatest he'd ever looked, but not many could say they'd knocked on death's door and lived to tell about, let alone dressed well after doing so.  
Beatrice trilled softly as he gently scratched the back of her head. She had watched the whole procedure with interest, though he'd had a feeling her eyes were also on the road. Without trying he had been acutely aware that no one had travelled the road behind him, though he had also been readily absorbed in the delicate and messy work in the stream. He stood up carefully, leaning slightly on his cane, turning over the larger remains of plaster in his hands.  
We will dispose of that.  
Beatrice took it in her beak and with two great wing sweeps went aloft. She flew at least twelve feet out and dropped the cast into a mirey pool, where it could dissolve without leaving undue evidence. The rest of the remains had already washed away. Now, he carefully clambered up the road's grade, wary of misteps. His ankle felt cold to the air, despite it being a lukewarm day. He turned his attention back to his destination, the city in shades of slate, onyx, pewter, and indigo ahead.  
Mid-afternoon heralded the advent of dusk during the winter, and also the lighting of Noxus' braziers. Fires appeared in waves, as though a dance. Knowing Noxus' military tradition, Swain surmised it was probably on a ritual basis for guard changes and shifts during the twilight hour. He recalled when he was younger and the two 'eyes' of the mountain- which had a distinct skull-shape to it, hewn from magic or might, or naturally formed, no one remembered- had blazed with enormous bonfires during a Demacian siege. On typical nights, like this one, the city's lights glowed like cinders. The mountain probably had never been dark in its history, from ancient lava plumes to the lamps and torches of today. As he neared, he could make out the larger fires marking the entrances to the Underground, where many of Noxus' wards lay. The cavernous mountain housed an entire second half of Noxus, and within it sprawled sections of the city ranging from elaborate terraced houses for the wealthy, to decrepit ruins from ages gone by. Much was in stark, untilitarian Noxian architecture. Flourishes were reserved for the wealthy, or broken apart during any of the power struggles in history.  
Here the road crossed a stonework bridge over the marsh and wound directly north toward the southern gates of Noxus. Light's last grasp slipped off the stables outside the city. Lows and whinnies sounded here and there as he passed. The road broadened and ran across the threshold of a thick solid stone wall. No masonry was apparent on Noxus' first line of fortification, and the legend went that the wall had been erected through blood sacrifice, given to the stone below. An enemy army captured, arranged, and slain simultaneously. It was said the unit on wall duty rotated every month because any longer would drive guardsmen mad. No one lived directly against the wall, as the city kept a small buffer of fields and other useful utilities for surviging seiges between it and the grim fortification.  
The guards barely acknowledged him, eyes under dark steel helmets glancing at his leg, then his face, both of which looked worse for wear. They nodded him through.  
"Don't make more work for us later, boy," one goaded. Her voice was harsh, but sincere.  
"Aye, we'd better mark that one, so when they pull his corspe from the gutter we can tut about the flotsam they tell us to let in," her companion chuckled.  
Jericho kept his head down, and attempted to do the same with his temper. Suddenly he went cold as a vision of the two guards backed against the closed porticullis, eyes white with terror in moonlight. Steel rang and their bodies slumped forward, heads rolling. He twitched as his awareness returned and his vision faded. The two guards were watching him closely now.  
Apologies, we thought you would like to see.  
With more warning, he might've been able to process the prediction better, but in his current travel-weary state, it was disorienting.  
"What was that, little wretch?" The woman asked, swallowing hard. Jericho shook his head and croaked at her.  
"Nothing, I tripped, been unsteady since the fever came and went last summer." He assumed he had cried out.  
She nodded warily and turned back to her watch and her guardmate.  
"Death's in that one," he heard her remark.  
"Aye, he must be close to the veil. Spooky."  
Jericho quickly shrugged it off and conitnued hobbling toward the city proper.

Another more intricate song and dance at the larger gate that split to the underground and the wealthy aboveground wards and Jericho had finally finished his journey back to a city which would have tried to kill him. The night was cooling rapidly, his breath had begun to show in steaming puffs on each exhale. Beatrice tugged on his hair.  
We're being followed.  
Out of instinct he had wandered into the underground for warmth. The streets were not crowded and many of the markets had put up shop for the evening, with signs stating they would be open at dawn. He strolled through a set of buildings constructed on the floor of an enormous cavern. Fires and magelights blazed merrily in most places. He took a sudden corner to the right, cursing himself for not being more aware. Sliding down against the wall on the perimeter of one of the open markets, he thrust his crutch forward.  
A figure in black robes not much taller than he turned the corner and caught its foot on the cane and promptly dissolved into a puff of smoke. Startled, he jumped to his feet- or at least attempted to. Scrabbling, he was aware of Beatrice staring down another hooded figure across the lane between markets. A scoff reached his ears, followed by a chuckle. Keeping his eyes down, Jericho slowly extended and upturned palm and then clenched his fist. Immediately wicked talons burst from the cobbles and grasped at the figure.  
A gasp replaced the amusement. Jericho lifted his head and locked eyes with a young woman, not much older than himself. Her hood had fallen back when his spell caught her cloak. She only held his stare for a moment before pouting and then tearing her cloak attempting to free herself. He thrust himself forward, striding across the gap between them purposefully. She haphazardly flung her hand out and a black chain materialized and followed her hand's trajectory-towards Jericho's chest. He instinctively sidestepped, and the chain went its full extension and disapated, much like the doppleganger had before.  
"Don't you dare come closer," she snarled. He stopped, just a few feet short of her.  
"And?" He raised an eyebrow. Beatrice stretched her wings, shook them off, and preened herself. The grl glared at him.  
Another comes.  
"Tsk tsk, Evaine, he caught you off guard? No matter, we can manage this way." The voice was difficult to pin down exact traits, though it was definitely lighter pitched. It rang with charm and discernment, as well as self-possession. The words uttered in it made Jericho want to believe and trust everything, Beatrice prodding the back of his mind kept him from doing so.  
A second figure appeared. There was a snap of fingers and Jericho felt his spell break. Beatrice cawed angrily.  
"You have no where to sleep, and you look to need it, young man. This is Evaine, and I... well, I am of no consequence until we get to know one another more."  
"Are you offering me such lodging? What's the price?"  
"I am, indeed. Consider it an investment for the future."  
"I don't make open ended deals."  
"Ah, but time is short and you do not have much else to offer."  
Untrustworthy, but not ill-intended. Not now.  
He took a deep breath and nodded.  
"Very well. "  
"I'm not asking you to trust me, you know. Merely accept our hospitality," she chided gently. Her voice reminded Jericho of toffee, sweet, malleable, but also difficult to pry from one's teeth. She nodded to Evaine, who lifted a finger. His mind began to feel hazy. There was a tug in the corner of his awareness, and he shrugged it off, if they wanted secrecy, he'd let it be secret. Beatrice gave him a stare as his eyes glazed over and preened her wing. She then looked at the two women leading her ward through the underground of Noxus and let out a small croaking caw.  
"We haven't forgotten about you, lady. It is out of respect we did not tamper with you, as you know. He'll be fine."  
Six red eyes narrowed in scrutiny for a moment, then relaxed. The underground became a winding maze of tunnels with and without torches until finally the pair lead them to an ancient manor in an even older section of caverns. Beatrice was right at home, the magic in this place gave her some invigoration. Once inside, Jericho was laid down on a small but comfortable-seeming bed and a perch was brought for Beatrice.  
"He may sleep better if you situate yourself there."  
Beatrice cocked her head to one side.  
"No tricks. I know it would be... unwise... to separate you two."  
Assenting this, Beatrice flapped quietly to the perch and settled in for a watch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise I didn't lie when I said nearly a year ago that this was a multi-chapter work. -crickets-
> 
> Summoners appear to be a catch-all term for magic-users in Runeterra, based on old League Lore. I imagine their full titles to be "Summoner of Magic". Such as: Dorothea, Summoner of Magic for Noxus, to use an old OC as an exmaple. Alternatively: High Councilor Vessaria Koliminye, Summoner of Magic.

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted on a blog I set up for this story, but I feel it belongs here instead. 
> 
> The decision to use Swain's first name as his primary address in these first few chapters was a deliberate one, and as the story progresses, it will morph into his surname, which is primarily what he is addressed by in canon. 
> 
> I also am unsure if I'm settled on how Beatrice 'speaks' to him, but I'm unsure if her concept is going to remain consistent throughout the story. I will go back and do a final edit for continuity once the fic is complete, however, so it will eventually be the same if I do opt to change it.
> 
> The trouble I have with writing smart/canny characters is making them seem smart/canny without being too obvious or deus ex machina about this.


End file.
